Pathway to Japanese Literature

My first encounter with Yau’s poetry began seven or eight years ago with *Kami mo Hotoke mo*—a lengthy work published in a certain magazine. Though he was young then, and his poetic conception might now appear immature in its simplicity, never before had words conveyed such anguish to me so piercingly. Our friendship formed two or three years thereafter. Born frail, he contracted an incurable ailment of the spinal column, rendering what this world calls happiness and joy nearly absent from his existence. Yet with him dwelled a Devoted Mother whose embrace never wavered, transmuting suffering through poetry—this being the chronicle of half his life thus far. Hence his verse shows one face steeped in peril, austerity, shadow, and obscurity; another in truth, candor, desolation, and clarity—all permeated by coursing living blood. How could such poetry not live?

He resided at Mount Tsukuba’s foothills in an ancestral home encircled by hibiscus hedges, having no connection with the world. His health permitted no farm labor alongside villagers, so he watered gardens and cultivated plants to briefly dispel anguish. Young literati across the land who heard his poetic renown joyfully sent seeds from afar—keeping his flower beds ever vibrant. White blooms spoke someone’s heart, crimson petals another’s passion; the title “Flower Guardian Poet” grew most revered among youths who deeply recited his verses. We friends had titled his collection *Flower Guardian*—he himself took no part. Such was his unconstrained nature. These poems—each character combed, each phrase dissected to the finest hair—were purely the verses of an authentic soul: a sickly poet’s verses, an ill-fated literatus’s verses. Unlike poets of the western provinces who revived themselves on cold rice scraps, these differed utterly from clever imitators’ works. How could such poetry not live?

Yet for one such as he—severed from society’s currents—what his verses sang of could not but leak out naive simplicity or childlike sentiments through their very focus on immediate, commonplace matters. Truly, *Flower Guardian* in its single volume was sorrow-poetry. Were one to name a deficiency in these elegies, it might have been their lack of monumental sorrow; yet even absent this, how their poignant air compelled us as only his could! Herein lay proof enough that his poems crystallized from an authentic soul’s true passions.

He himself professed to be poorly read and widely unread—with no reference volumes at hand, nor any nearby friends to offer solace—his evenings spent sitting alone in rapt contemplation crafting poems resembled pine crickets and bell crickets that, stirred by the austere autumn fields, spontaneously sang. Though both singer and listener alike entered a trance of self-oblivion, the desolate bleakness left no leisure to cover one’s ears—how could such poetry not live?

Ah! In this world so laden with fetters, poetry alone remained free. Though heaven had deprived him of all things, it granted in return that which was most free—thus he too must find some measure of peace. Ever secluded in Hitachi Province’s remote villages, never seeking recognition from the so-called central literary circles, his poems might well have remained unknown to the world. Certain friends deeply regretted this and urged the publication of his collection; I too joined their cause. Yet he declared: “I desire nothing from this world. To dedicate this single small volume to my gray-haired Devoted Mother and witness her fleeting smile of joy—that alone suffices.” For truly, his mother was both his greatest sympathizer and the first soul he had ever revered. In understanding his poetry, she would yield precedence to none—not even us friends who recited his verses with deepest affection.

His poems were thus created, compiled, and published. What introduced him to the literary world was his own poetry. What brought his poems before the world was we, his various friends. Therefore, I here record these circumstances and offer this as my preface.

Respectfully submitted by Kojima Usui

I first met Yau-kun in January of Meiji 32 [1899], during my visit to Hitachi Province shortly after leaving Tokyo. When we changed trains at Oyama onto the Mito Line and crossed the Kinugawa River, the darkened winter sky cleared completely, and to the southeast, pressing against our brows, towered a splendid mountain crowned with white snow.
This was the famous Mount Tsukuba, and I felt as though I were meeting Yau himself.
That was because your poetry had soaked so deeply into our minds.
When one disembarks at Shimodate and travels two and a half ri along the road, Mount Tsukuba never leaves the brim of one’s hat.
Crossing several plain-like hills and proceeding along the rural road to Taiho—where frost pillars had crumbled, churning the dark soil into mud—there, facing due east, amidst a thick grove of trees, white walls and thatched roofs become visible.
That is your village.
Following the ditch’s edge through many bends, upon entering the village, there stands a house with a south-facing gate structure.
Though darkness had fallen completely by then, the sight of you hurrying out to greet me—though foreknown—struck me with indescribable poignancy.
That night we conversed delightfully without reserve before retiring, but when I examined your body the following morning at your mother’s request, an unforgettable surge of emotion struck my chest, and despite myself, unbidden tears fell.
According to your mother’s account: from around age five or six when illness first arose, she took him even to Tokyo where no renowned doctor went unconsulted—enduring great hardships—yet no complete cure was achieved. When attending elementary school, the commute proved so arduous that—to her dismay—he sometimes suffered mockery from other children.
He himself grew to detest it, ultimately withdrawing from school midway to shut himself indoors, pulling books from the storehouse to read.
Two or three years ago his body became so debilitated he could scarcely walk, though now it has improved somewhat.
“I don’t believe he can live long,” she said, “but I wish at least to relieve his physical pain.”
To detail your symptoms would contravene medical ethics; therefore I omit them.
In essence, there exists no part of his body without impairment.
Yet this differs from those malignant diseases society abhors.
I reassured them that all illnesses had stabilized without risk of worsening, and that through perseverance his lifespan might reach normal length—but this seemed unremarkable precisely because I was a doctor; an ordinary person would have been astonished!
Even Yau-kun himself had reached a state where he marveled at his own survival.

However, what surprised me was not his body.
It was not his body but rather the immensity of his vitality—how he, in this frail form, could produce so many poems, each retaining traces of training that gleam from within like polished beads.
His education was entirely self-taught; he hadn’t even completed the higher elementary school curriculum—this was no poet crafting verses through academic learning.
At that time, I recognized him as a person of genius.
If one were not a genius, how could such an undertaking have been accomplished given these circumstances and this level of education? It must be called nearly a miracle.
Thereafter, day after day he would step into the kotatsu and wage battle with his poetry.
At such times—his countenance unmoving as stone—he paid no heed whatsoever to his surroundings.
Occasionally he would recite softly while adjusting tonal balances.
Even after hours like this there appeared no sign of fatigue.
Once a draft was completed he would begin revising—this too extraordinary—not parting with paper and brush for one or even two days until satisfied.
This must be what they mean by sprinkling hot blood—without this true poetry cannot be born—I secretly marveled.
When spring arrived bringing tranquility we one day visited Taiho Marsh together.
Though walking less than ten chō exhausted him terribly—when we paid respects at Hachiman Shrine and descended through cedars toward the lake—a lonely smile rose to his lips.
This came from a distant beautiful childhood memory surfacing in his heart.
As he spoke of it he compared his current wretched state and lamented how dark clouds now shrouded his path ahead—only death’s crimson character flashing without hope.
At that moment I truly had no words to comfort him.
The lake lay slender and gleaming—its disturbances calmed like an ancient sword’s blade.
Where spring clouds toyed with dreams Mount Tsukuba’s vivid silhouette came into view.
The two fell silent.
Ah—that February stroll along shores treading fallen leaves!

In Yau-kun’s heart there would be no long life—yet in my memory it remains vividly etched... Mount Tsukuba and Taiho Marsh (the ancient “Tōha-no-Awami”) were all the nature you were permitted to possess; to those esteemed readers who open this book I earnestly pray these landscapes shall never fade from your minds.
You later participated in hot spring bathing at Hakone with fellow members and last year accompanied your father to visit an exhibition with relatives while traveling from Nara to Ise—yet even these spanned merely five or six days—so limited was the nature you could experience.

From then on, our interactions grew increasingly intimate, our exchange of letters became more frequent than before, and now we had become true kindred spirits.
I visited your house perhaps five or six times.
I believe you came to my Tokyo lodgings two or three times as well.
Your disposition was the epitome of unadulterated purity, remaining untainted by any impurity since the moment you were born.
If the time spent facing you was a day, then a day's refreshing breeze blew; if the time spent sleeping beside you was a night, then a night's bright moon shone.
I had interacted with various people, but someone as pure as you was almost without equal.
This was the pride of us peers.
Your house, being from an old family, had a naturally grand presence and served as the focal point of respect in the neighborhood.
Your father currently held the position of Honorary Village Mayor.
Your mother was a woman deep in emotion and strong in will; at night, she could be seen perusing her beloved child’s poems under lamplight.
Your mother was truly a guardian goddess for you; even to those observing from the sidelines, the depth of her maternal affection—her constant concern for her son in every waking and resting moment—was profoundly felt with gratitude.
The younger brothers were all sturdy and honest fine youths; surrounding their elder brother, they would engage in each of their favorite games.
Relatives and old acquaintances were just a single fence and a straight path away—a distance not particularly difficult even for heavy legs. Particularly, Uncle from the New House was a cheerful and witty man, and his travel tales, such as his Shikoku pilgrimage forty years prior, were among the amusing stories we heard.
To show your household, I excerpted the following passage from the letters.

At the house, with the students from relatives and four studious individuals all gathered together, it has become quite lively.
Jun-kun, who plans to enter the military academy next year, is managing well; Takashi-sensei (both Jun and Takashi are your esteemed younger brothers) plays the flute when weary of writing.

When night fell, the four withdrew to the next room and did not emerge until they finished spinning.
In the main room, Mother was the central figure; with Grandfather, Taro, Ohatsu, and Osai gathered around the lamp spinning thread and turning the wheel—the place grew quite lively indeed.
I too sometimes helped Osai by spinning tsumugi silk thread in this middle room during the evening.
Aunt had been in Shimosa for a month now.

The Kokaigawa River lay one or two *chō* from the edge of the village.
Between the Shinkawa and Furukawa rivers lay an island.
Across these vast fertile fields, Mount Tsukuba appeared so near one might cradle it in their palm, while the purple hues said to shift seven times daily could be vividly counted.
When evening deepened and the sky cleared completely, beneath Venus’s shining light, a phantom-like Mount Fuji floated into view.
In summer’s tidings,

The other day, I was taken by my brother to Benzei’s weir to fish, but even under the scorching sun beating down, I didn’t feel hot.
The crucian carp bit playfully, the rice leaves rustled crisply, and I stood amidst vast green fields stretching endlessly.
With clouds thickening and the wind growing stronger, Mount Tsukuba was reflected distinctly in the water.
Water beetles swam beneath floating algae’s shade, dragonflies darted about… At that time, I had caught enough fish to fill half a gourd—such a bountiful haul was my first ever.

It was the wide moat that flowed into this river.

The Kokaigawa River was apparently an ateji for its true name, Kaikogawa (Silkworm-Rearing River), but whenever one heard the river’s name, images of the local farmers’ lives in that area immediately flashed before one’s eyes. Indeed, even on the river island just mentioned, mulberry picking was in full swing, and during silkworm season, women wearing red sashes and headscarves swayed left and right to gentle rural songs—a sight said to have looked quite beautiful from afar.

The autumn silkworms would mature in three more days.
This was the height of the busy period.
The ones with that filling were sweet monaka, but even a sweet-tooth like Mr. Usui probably wouldn’t eat this kind.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been put in charge of mulberry leaves, but this time, with Jun-kun and Takashi-kun handling the labor, I couldn’t simply retreat to the inner rooms under the pretense of lofty observation; instead, I had to keep watch over Mother’s duties in a corner of the kitchen.
The scent of mulberries was still bearable, but the acrid aroma that assailed my nose truly made me surrender.

This was the state of the silkworm room.
Beyond sericulture,

The rice was packed into straw bales; now the countryside was busy pulling radishes, the cotton had been harvested, and here and there the twanging sounds of cotton ginning could be heard.
The wind was strong; on the young chestnut trees, dead leaves still clung without falling.
The rustling paulownia leaves scampering like mice were amusing.

This too was a rural charm well expressed in words.

Upon reading this, many might have envied your happiness and wished to trade places even for a day; yet you bore constant pain and unceasing anguish.
You were a born misanthropic poet.

Lately my heart sinks ever deeper; long has it been since I last faced my inkstone.
My legs hang heavy like stones lashed with thousand-pound weights; my stifled spirit mirrors skies heavy with early summer rains.
I make no move to escape this evening wind that seeps into my flesh—often I fix my gaze upon a lone star glowing in southern skies.
It appears when peach-hued celestial light fades thin—this golden evening star glimpsed just beyond our storehouse roof.
Those of old must have watched such stars through their windows too—yet I have no lover yearning from heaven’s edge nor twilight worthy of memory’s tears.
From earthborn cry until heaven’s return must I walk alone.
This desolation beyond remedy finds no ear.
Though youths die young—he likely never steeled himself for solitude.
Though bud-withered maidens fade—she surely never dreamt death’s terror drawing near.
Why was I born only to lose all joy at birth—condemned to endless pain of flesh and soul?
That star must shine for you as well.
[...] Not one night passes without my longing—if only in dreams—for robust limbs.
Hands stronger than others’, swifter feet—to pluck blooms from highest boughs and ford deepest streams...

In short, it's resentment over unhealed sores—but I'll be honest with you: if I could become a soldier, I'd rot away in that impregnable Lüshunkou fortress and fight my way to death.

These gut-wrenching writings do not end here.

On the Mid-Autumn night I went alone to the marsh and saw the light of the setting sun fading upon the waves; weary legs that could hardly take another step drawn close to tree roots, I gazed at the water's surface where the moon was not yet reflected—then from west and north came fog layering thickly until the water became like a mirror that made both heaven and earth seem distant, and there I recognized my beautiful dwelling.
Contemplating deceased friends and then the plight of the infirm—one after another—I grieved that after my parents' passing some shadowy figure might block my path; resolving to float a house(boat) on the desolate lake's heart and seclude myself within it, determined not to dwell on the world's futility—I already possessed both means to build a house and a field to cultivate alone.
Let me dwell!
"On the lake where no one comes."

Here I saw people.
They had husbands; they had wives.
They came to mock and humiliate me—these beings darker and more obscure than myself.
Though pride alone sustained me through pitying their base nature, I longed to escape their gaze and dwell forever solitary.

Should I sketch vanished dreams across empty skies only to rot uselessly in fields?
Strength yet remained within me.
I would live through every moment granted since birth's first breath.

In time, you gave me the poem to inscribe upon the walls of my water vault yet to be built.

A writing of such genuine and profound sentiment—I believe anyone who reads it without weeping cannot be human.

My legs hurt; I enter the storehouse but can no longer search for books.
My brothers aren’t home all day—nor are they servants to be ordered about—much less would I ask them to massage my aching legs at night.
When pain keeps me from sleeping, there are times I sit alone in the dark parlor until the roosters crow.
Lying down on the futon only makes it hurt more.

Phrases of this nature had never been absent from any written page, yet precisely because he was one who comprehended humanity's highest sensibilities, his resolve to grieve without wounding—to endure it all silently within his gut—became all the more pitiable. Yet when one re-examined and interpreted them, there was nothing among these matters that wasn't extraordinary. Your anguish arose from the numerous flaws in your externally manifested life being ultimately unable to contain the blazing flames within—by the same principle as a volcano erupting—transforming into cries of resentment and tears of discontent from excessive pent-up frustration; thus, the purity of your entire existence resided precisely here. From the perspective of your life's value, what was most precious was this anguish; you had an obligation to carefully nurture this gold and forge it ever higher into a noble diamond. Anguish was not something ordinary people could endure; who among the great men and heroes of old had not been a child of anguish? Moreover, even the disease demon was as such: just as steep cliffs and rushing rivers preserved the dignity of a deep mountain, it was entirely through the power of the disease demon that you had been sincerely enveloped and enabled to maintain an innocent wondrous form. Just as violent storms and torrential rains created the ruggedness of steep peaks, what had forged you and given profound depth to your poetic works had to ultimately be called the gift of the disease demon. To have witnessed such a great harmony of contradictions and such a great radiance of darkness so vividly manifest before us in this present world—this rare and extraordinary spectacle among the lives of all people in the universe—became an irrepressible cause for joy both for Yau-kun and for you, esteemed readers.

At some indefinable time, he began planting flowers in the garden, sprinkling water, gathering plants, and proclaimed himself "Flower Guardian."

“But the flowers are beautiful.”
“About six varieties are blooming now, but there’s no color missing from the spectrum.”
“Even the cockscombs have so many hues you couldn’t possibly count them all.”
“(From seeds by New York’s Henderson & Co.) Evening primroses in yellow and crimson; moonflowers in wisteria-purple and snow-white; chrysanthemums in white and pale pink with double and single petals; American speedwell in lavender; Urajima chrysanthemums in eight hues—I wish I could show you this riot of colors and have you lecture me on their shades.”

Moreover, it was said he had recently gathered village children and opened a temple school.
“Flower Guardian” and “O-Master”—what a poetic life this was!
Someone like Yau-kun—from the very crown of his head to the tips of his toes—could indeed be called poetry incarnate.

August 18th in Izu Ito

Friend: Irako Seihaku

Yau was an ill-fated poet; from childhood he carried illness within his body, gazing upon the verdant slopes of Mount Tsukuba from his chamber yet seldom venturing beyond doors and windows. Is it any wonder that his anguished thoughts coalesced into poetry—these mournful tones akin to silkworms ceaselessly spinning their threads?

And now contemplating this anew: when humans are born receiving illness from heaven, it is indeed profoundly grievous. Yet when one is born receiving the Muse of Poetry’s favor—her lavish endowment of poetic gifts—who in this world could yearn for and attain such a thing? In all creation, there exists but one poet who, though raising his feet in struggle, may preserve this blessing. Though Yau bore bodily illness, his home remained harmonious—devoted parents within its walls, filial younger brothers at his side, a five-acre garden beyond his study’s window sufficient to nurture earthly flowers and solace his eyes. This alone was supreme fortune—how much more so the radiant genius of his mind’s blooms, comforts so profound and vast! Ah, Yau—can we truly say you had not received life’s utmost felicity? Can we say you had not?

Your Humble Acquaintance, Koto Sei

Evening Light

The heat haze that blazed upon the embankment—
Where amidst the grasses might it have hidden?
Verdure takes the sky’s name,
Clouds—they hide the sun in the west.
The faintly rustling base of Fuji—
Separated by hundred-league winds—
At the foothills sway autumn reeds—
Ashiho Mountain darkens amidst.

At the tower shrouded by rain clouds,
Not being a suspended rainbow bridge,
The light through seven slender bamboos—Tsukuba's base—

Dusk encircling the heights—

In a gauzy robe gleaming with snow,

The aching chest covered.

Unmistakable—my grave’s

Shadow I saw amidst the fields.

Of the white dragon coiling through clouds—

Wearing a sword to split horns,

Where deer cry at mountain’s edge, gallop the steed.

Was the war-arrow’s sounding but a dream?

At that brink, barely—

Soul, until it parts from mortal frame—

Lonely things at Onoe—

Night’s monkeys clamor,

Moon’s reflection mirrors in water,

Flower’s image blooms in mirror,

Longing only for phantoms—

Within phantoms—my aged self.

On a moonless night—the dayflower
even upon its blossoms—hints
crimson illuminates the splendid peak—
white at light’s fading edge—ah
my sister clings and weeps—
even if I fling no wilted wreath

A crown of jade? The golden radiance—

If only it would shine upon the grave—

temporary enshrinement hall

(Mourning the Death of Motoo Akiyuki)

The sun that emerges from the eastern sea

though it sinks into the western mountain,

the light that never sinks—heavenly clouds

piercing through countless distant layers

In the empty sky, crimson—

haze flowing over sand

Laying stones upon the hill's height

the built grave lies desolate

Holding a hunting arrow, pursuing deer—

the child of Kume who must have dropped it in the forest

Upon the earlobe hung golden—

the earring was corroded by rain

The maiden's cheeks powdered with rouge,

sleeves with patterns and black hair,

since being laid in the temporary enshrinement hall,

has become earth for a thousand years.

At dawn under the cherry blossoms

The spring journey alone has reached its end.

What wind blows that autumn—
Dew gives way to frost—
Though I walk on and on, never returning—

Having sent someone off—the field lies blue
The field lies blue—scattering wildly.

The flowers’ destination—phantom’s
～～～～～～～

In the forest house—

(My older sister departed in the spring when she was fifteen)

Had mother’s breast borne no milk—

Lips that were not permitted

Mountain lilies whose roots entwine rocks—

Without ever touching the radiant flower,

The elder sister, two years older,

On a spring night when the moon was full,

Placing a saddle on the chestnut horse

Was wedded to the forest manor.

In the thicket where quails hide

Searching for eggs—a palm

The wild man tearing through brambles—
I was a brave child.

Knowing loneliness, I play the barley flute—
Though I sound it on the misted hill,
The beautiful one—amidst green barley—
Does not part the verdure to appear.
At the parched stony river,
Autumn—the plump young sweetfish,
Pierced through dwarf bamboo and hung to dry—
Luminous brows unseen at the door—

At the marsh
Parting the lotus's floating leaves
A lake where poles ply and circle—
The setting sun dyes the heavens' clouds

The evening waves were calm.

Mount Tsukuba did not darken—nor did the fields.

The song did not fade—nor the seaweed-cutting boat.

Maneuvering the supple pole,

The path ahead darkened too.

Willows drooped by the inlet’s edge—

A bare horse crossed the bridge,

Its wildly flowing mane

Washed black by river water—

The young man gripping reins,

His headband white against autumn’s wind.

Upon bridge and boat—

Love—let there be love—the shame of

～～～～～～～

Spillway

(Mourning Yamauchi Fuyuhiko)

The summer field's dew at dawn
The spiritual dream awakened.
Though I call, the hawk does not return—
Seeing it cry in the deep mountain clouds

The evening’s bonfire blazing white—
At the earthen bridge’s edge—lingers fading
Spider-legged paths threading small rice fields

The field—not even dew-drenched grass remains.

Water plunging into the weir’s spillway—

Autumn pressing in upon the stream—

Mount Kurokami—morning clouds—

Clouded yet visible to the north—

Flowers becoming children—pale cherry blossoms—

Spanning Yayoi—the summer grasses’

Treading through depths of fog—
Life—by God's permission—
Why must someone die today—
Made to weep where clouds thin
I am in the fields of Hitachi
This self of mine—blown by the wind

The light of day has been concealed
Deep in the stone coffin’s depths
Accompanied by evening shadows
People have hidden themselves in darkness.
Dugout canoe
Nothing traverses here but clouds.
In the depths of Ishikari’s Mitake
Brocade-clad katsura trees shut tight,
The valleys have turned crimson.

In the sea of fog floats a forest island.

Fog again shrouds the island's woods.

The Great Waterfall plunges onto the Rain Dragon—

The stony river holds fascination.

Though frost coats the cave,

The bear wandering wilderness never returns.

Twisting white willow branches—

Without seeing Aido sound the bowstring,

At the river where golden winds cross—

When I stand alone at sky's height—

Is the shore where withered reeds whisper?

Fog clears—no boat tracks remain.

Eyes gleam in night water—

Though the otter's fierceness persists—

At the edge where cliffs loom—
The jewel my sister holds aloft sinks too—
The rock exposed to rain and whitened—
In the rock’s shadow, ‘Fire’s Jewel’ has bloomed.
Vestiges crumble in the waves.
The flower petals are withered by frost.
From ancient times, no smoke has risen.
Selecting choice trees from this mountain—
Building a stand in the wife’s chamber—
Towering in Yaegaki Forest—

Fallen leaves burn under the thatched hut’s eaves
The new wife’s joy will not be contained.

The village where memories bear no flowers
Crimson sleeves would grow damp
The sea where hazy moonlight lifts feathers aloft—
The heat haze had vanished like a dream
At the bedroom door, drawing a cherry blossom
Mountain verdure to blend into the basket

Within, whispers are exchanged.

In the thin silk of window hangings,

Morning's bright clarity flows—the star's

azure—shall I capture this?

A dugout canoe poling upward,

The road stretches far—one hundred seventy ri.

Pillows piled upon water that does not return.

The journey has turned to autumn—

From the base of Ishikari-dake

The great river flows and falls—

Clouds trailing far over the lower rapids—
When dawn breaks, encircling Mi-dake's base—
Tsugaru Strait where waves know no bounds—
Near the sea gate, though oars ply—
Flame-flickering Mount Usori—
What is visible is only smoke in the depths—
Radiant golden light—
The Nachi Sea bearing the moon—
Having come far to northern Shimane—
Ah, sorrowful to wander alone—
If I had a catalpa bow—
Gripping the white-feathered battle arrow—
The lingering starlight pales—
In Iwami Marsh I would hunt birds—
The rain flips up the coltsfoot leaves—
Enveloped by the bailing boat—
Trout fry to be caught by hand—
Though I tread in the shallow stream’s water—

If I chase the hidden dragon’s quarry and ascend—
The river narrows, and an elm tree—
Startled, does it stand—long-beaked,
The emerald-feathered waterbird’s
At the waterfall basin where waves surge and swirl—
When the evening glow casts its light and a rainbow forms—

On the waterfall’s surface—my shadow’s
Reflects as purple-gold—
Violets scenting the field—
The butterfly was merely drunk on flowers—
In the golden wind pervading Kiji—
Though I do not mend these torn wings—
When drunk—the familiar transverse flute—

Tuning to Sorachi’s moon while—

When waking—Yūbari’s dark

Sarutobu-dake sobs—

When waves rise at Cape Sōya—

Teshio’s clouds too must freeze

With five fingers shattered—

No strength even to grasp an oar—
They cry in Saruma’s sea waters.
Though I hear no mandarin ducks’ voices,
The thin quilt chills at dawn’s breaking—
Now I yearn for dreams of yore:
Shall I return to southern seas?
If I return—no snow crowns peaks;
If I return—flowers course through rivers;
Shall I return to Kii’s waters?
A black fox-fur robe—
Shoulders frayed—leave them to others;
Below—the sorrowful one’s cast-off garb
Has clothed itself in stitched raiment.
Snow still withholds from Ishikari’s
Mountains and fields where winds course—
Cloud-shadows drift across earth’s face;
Grass-hues mirror in heaven’s vault.

~~~~~~~~~~

Celestial light
Light appears offshore,
Darkness has retreated from the sea.
The northern sea where stars still linger—
The waves must stir in azure.

On the southern hill, a butterfly flies.
When roses are fragrant,
In the new tide that surges and swirls
The island glistens visible, ah—
The haze over Onoe’s Sakurano
Within the curtain of flowers, all has ceased—

The prominent peak adorned with a ring of fire—
I stand in the morning sky and gaze—
At the sacred peak’s summit—
Though I tread not upon the sevenfold rainbow,

When I look up - celestial upon my forehead—

A sensation of light clinging—
The wife was driven out by others' deeds—
A mayfly flits above water's face—
Through its wings gazes the grass carp—
Onoe's blossoms scatter down—
Fins flapping! Tail thrashing! How it leaps!
At cloud's frayed edge sinks the moon—
In marshlands fades all trace of light—
Though clutching this dampened pole—
The oarless weed-cutter drifts unsteered—
Crimson burns within moonlit waves—
Yakumo's peaks at every shadow—
Night's lingering clouds stain dawn—
Two summits stand immaculate—
Low lies the bank; wild grows each tree.

The mountain waves spanning northwest—
At Kurokamiyama—whose wife’s
Thin silk would veil those brows.

Morning haze trailing through summer—
Fuji becomes visible from summer’s start, they say.

Drifting mid-marsh’s expanse,
A waterway shuns the haze—ah—

Where water chestnut fruits sink below,
A white-winged bird takes flight.

Enviable were those brushing wings—
O swan dwelling as pair—
At the boat’s motion they scattered swift
To stake among reeds, calling mutual—

Birds bore wings light—
Though beckoned, drew not near
Upon waves deemed hateful—
Cherished like birds—

After folk left my house
Lonely autumn arrived—

Combing morning hair upon bed
Adorning brows in chamber’s depth

Tied in sleeve—eight clusters’
Young violet hue deepened—

Rainy eve—before me
Sewing yet drowsing—

Broad-swept bangs
Pressed to desk and broken—

Hairpin pricked cheek—unnoticed

Trying to ring—awakened—
On lips glistening with crimson rouge
Again the jewel was returned.
The wife was driven out because of others
Only the tears of two knew.
(Enviable are those who brush wings,
O swan dwelling together as male and female)
Beautiful thing—it resists release
The bird I grasp cannot be taken.
The wife was driven out because of others.

Lost in an unending daylight dream,
On the eastern road where clouds flow onward—
For what purpose have I come?

Pines sparse and hazels abundant,
Hitachi's mountains stood not high.

(A marsh where water chestnut fruits fall—
There too a white-winged bird took flight.)

Raking in young shoots of water oats,
I plucked only to the boat's solace.

When I thought of birds being chased away,
Of chased ones hiding in grass—
A flower-laden cart passed the main road.

Is the girl a small flower cart?
In the outstretched hand, spring flowers bloom.

In the pulling hand flutter autumn waves.

In the slender hall where lamplight sways,
The dancing princess flips her fan—
The Kizu River descending from Iga—
Upon waters where every stone lies rounded

At the gate of waves swollen with snow—

Held up her scarlet skirt as she stood—

Near Saikyō, an abandoned temple’s—

Leaning against the crumbling embankment

Sunlight filtered down through the forest’s ginkgo trees—

The nun who had wept in that light—

Stone steps with weathered lanterns—

Fearing the deer, they ran up—

The color of flushed cheeks

Glowed like a flower—

People went and returned.

A flower-laden cart thunderously passed by.

The forked road lay distant,

What remained was the dark shadow of flowers.

Field Guardian’s Mirror

The surface rusts,

Sheds its form;
There are no clouds—
Of one who does not return
To one alone,
The gods permit loving—
Though they permit—
Reed Field Sparrow

In a small village near the Kinu River, there was a Portuguese orphan who had wandered here seeking his mother's connections; passing by its gate at dusk,

Sugao Moor in evening stillness,

Streaming banner clouds conceal—

When seeing crimson—thus helplessly—

He must have shed these fragile tears.

Drifting upon thousand-fold waves,

Though I would row with the true rudder tightly gripped—
To enter the Tegusu River—

Because the journey was too far—
The lingering moon began to fade—
Wandering the Kinu Riverbed—
Dawn's first light blazing at Murasui Peak’s ridge—

If I gaze upon the star illuminating the peak—
From heaven descends an angel’s
Wings bearing passage to Paradise—

The afterimage of the mother who returned—
Manifest within the flower wreath—
At the waist, a threefold-wrapped twilled sash—
The sash may be tied lightly—
The arrow-feather pattern I had only seen in paintings—
The swinging sleeves have grown familiar—
To pick mugwort,
With a basket in one hand, the single-log bridge
If I sink into deep blue water,
Would my sleeve cling to the waves?
The white rose accustomed to being held aloft
Be that as it may, O Flower Lord
On the shoulder, the swirling persimmon tannin color of
Hair—for whom does one comb?
(Moonlight pierces the chamber; sleeping curled up,
The dream I beheld was flowers.
Dimly dwelling lightning’s
Having become the life of dew,
In the heart-aching autumn wind,)

All I long for is Mother—

Gazing at the capital’s western clouds—

The boat crossing to Hitachi—

How uncertain in the twilight!

The oar grows dim, splitting the reeds)

～～～～～～～

Standing at Irozaki

(Thinking of Tsukishima-maru)

Multilayered clouds flowing—
Crimson-scented dawn sky

All night long, the sea shone—
The brine's light too had faded

Southward-migrating wild geese’s—
Voices fell upon the cape though—

Island roots trembled beneath morning tide’s—
Autumn sea churning at rapids

Oyster shells bleached on rugged shores—
Stood atop towering rocks—

the sunken ship in the offing—

I gazed at its sorrowful traces—

Over seventy-five ri of open sea—

Though the waves roar white,

Buried beneath jeweled seaweed

The ship remains submerged—ah

The battle—

is ended

The mast now—

has collapsed

Swift runs—

The cloud's shadow—
Resounded—the great sea's
roar of waves
Upon hidden rocks
run aground
the split keel
laid bare
The battle—

The battle—has come to an end.

The voice of the storm

In the aftermath,

Amidst the mist’s illusion,

Flashed—

White sails and flags both,

Torn,

Evening darkness approaches.

Upon the sea
“The color of the beacon”
Strengthless—
Behold, kicking the sky
Amid savage waves
The ship capsizes—
A vortex churns
In the midst of the churning vortex
Drifting there—
The final shadow—
Foam—
Morning—on the mountains of Iwate
Turnip fields—a rainbow’s arch as dream

Evening—off the coast of Kashima
When I sought to witness groundswells surging,
A tomb adorned with flowers—
Leaving no small thing in the fields—
Water-soaked corpses—crimson
Sank into the coral reef.
Great Ocean encircling the Eight Islands—
A boy born of the waves—

Autumn wind crossing the Izu Sea—
The beloved remains laid bare—it must have been

To Yasuko

(From Suimei to His Beloved Child)

Smoke-resembling flowers bloom,
White crow melons on the earthen bridge—
Fragrant flowers for Yasuko’s
Let me adorn the downy hair

From the mountain’s western depths—frost,
The time when melons will be dyed
Splitting crimson for Yasuko’s
Dyeing cherry-colored cheeks

Taking seeds from Hitachi’s fields,
To the capital transplant crow melons.

Yasuko born in spring’s
To drape around sleeves of blossoms—

～～～～～～～

Sunken Star

(To One Bereaved of a Child)

Flowers turn to roots at spring's twilight

The soul of my child that never returns

Beneath the cherry-blossomed grave

These summoned tears shall never dry

Dawn's lingering traces lie scattered

Chinu Bay's cove—a phantom skiff

When I gaze upon sunken starlight

Thoughts—ah—clamor in the void's expanse

Even in water flowing silent

Vowing not to dampen the earth

Spring departs having interred—

The mountain cuckoo prepares its cry

On autumn nights when white dew thickens

At the eaves' farthest reach—the lantern's

Pale light lures me

Guided by shadowed visions as I returned,
On the familiar arm-pillow of shared sleep—
What I saw living proved but a dream,
Tender skin freezing beneath the earth:
In darkness now my child lies hidden.

～～～～～～～

Trout Fishing

(Woman)

Shedding the dawn's dream,

White clouds spread as quilts—

Sleep one night at the barrier road.

On this journey—you too—a maiden’s
In Hakone’s jeweled-box valley
Catching grass carp—I am a lowly child.

Upon Hayakawa’s waters far in distance,
In Kiga autumn reached its height.
In shallows where white stones sank,
Though I scooped，the sleeve’s edge grew wet.
In spring breeze scattered bangs—
Under basket’s weight tucked at side,
Sagami’s jellyfish passed through.
In lofty hall played koto.
If in dreams secretly listened,
Because of you，eyelashes grew moist.
Aqua sleeves’ length—
As hand turned，ring glittered.
When sash tied high at chest,
Even walking，flowers spilled forth.
Flowers scattered-floating on flowing water—
Is grief flowers’ fate?
Swaying along capital’s grand avenue，
Silver whip too swung—
Upon flowing water—scattered-floating flowers’

How long will this face shine?
Burning kyara incense upon gauze—
Though I apply rouge to lips—
Of scattered-floating flowers upon flowing water—
Are they flowers, these scentless ones?
To drown—the abyss holds water.
Shall I break upon the riverbed stones?
From a bitter dream I awaken
I shall hide in phantom clouds.
In the reed-filled sea, the moon casts its shadow
Has the light purified since autumn?
The white leaves of Kasugano
They take on your very hue.
A small boat on the lake poles its oar.
Though dawn weeps with stars
When the mountain peach blossoms bloom—
Under the new moon, they must shave their brows—

Wandering through the Ashigara Mountains—
Upon flowing water—I scatter flowers.
Upon flowing water—I must scatter as flowers.

Mount Ashigara’s spring twilight.

The thinning stars.

(A girl who was humiliated)

The Yadokumitsu flowers bloom scarlet,

At a mountain temple with a decayed bell tower
She shaved away disheveled hair clinging to her shoulders

Ah, the shame—she had become a nun.

She took the brush beneath the mirror.

Though I no longer apply colors,

upon the pillow lingers dawn’s

The shadow of clouds—how cold.

In delicate spring rain's corridor,
Raising a cypress fan to flutter,
Mistaken for scattering flowers—
Even if I restore the butterfly's spirit,

The bangs that hang upon the forehead—
Even curled, they are not lifted.
In the mid-sky where autumn winds blow,
The wandering dream shall not return.

The baleful light of stars emerged,

Awaji Island where root-waves roared

At Yura no To where boats passed through,

The trackless waves did not pursue.

Sumoto Pine Grove broke off midway.

A rainbow arched over the white shore’s

I drowned in the high tide and revived.

The new nun who had come to be by her own will—
In the palace where white snow falls

The female court attendant who raised the bamboo blind—

In the southern sea, sinking deep.

Unhappy name has washed upon the shore.

Drifting toward where the moon sets

The Jikushi-bune that fell with the tide

The princess whose countenance shone—

Having buried both mementos and waves
When I consider it—I am a fragment of jade

A shard shattered against stone—
Tears on floral-patterned sleeves—
Were I to conceal them and wed afar,
These lips holding the ceremonial cup—
How long might this rouge endure?
The phantom shifting in my breast—
In what hue should I array myself?
The mandarin-duck embroidered quilt—
When obis loosen beneath Nagoya—
Should trembling fingers be grasped—
Would I perish in dream? Reality—
Where aloeswood perfumes the chamber door—
She lay turned away, languid—

She held down disheveled garments while...

Tears fell unbeknownst to weeping—

Lost in the haze,

The cries of wild geese—

At Naruto’s constricted strait,

Audible there—

The mist of tidal seaweed...

How dear,

At Mua’s inlet,

They must be crossing.

The inland sea illuminated,
Moonlight’s
Light wreathes.

Since it is an island,
the rock's roots twist.
The sound of the waves—

In the island's depths as well—

Resounding while,

In the dew of the sacred tree
Dripping with brine,
The shadow waned—
The new nun,
Field Guardian’s Mirror—
How many times—

At the shallow mountain's edge

They say it makes one weep

Crimson seeps.
Upon thin silk
Even the milk once veiled
Has been wounded
Even the unforgettable—
If I forget
Within tears

Without dying,

Crumbling plastered wall

At dawn when buds swell,

When jewel-like dewdrops enhance their hues,

Of the noble one treading through flowers

The long hem of her robe lies in disarray.

The tender green grass of Korinz

In the field, dusk’s dew veils

On flowers faintly dimmed
The moonlight glimmers dimly though
Thorns outnumber flowers.
The high hall circled by northern blooms—
The windows were shut with thorns.
The field has become naught but flowers.

Crumbling plastered wall in disarray
Beneath the crimson canopy a squirrel cried
Fluttering bewildered through daylight flowers
The butterfly's wings hung languid
The marble door too lay buried
Having become a door of flowers
The labyrinthine palace? Through blossom gates—
None who entered ever returned
Having abandoned his chestnut steed
The warrior who passed the gate
Never returning—the silver

The whip had rusted at the field's edge.

May rain hair combed to hue—

The ribbon-fastened maiden's

Basket in arm into the hedge

Ask flowers where one entered.

Standing famed as Flower Palace,

Fragrant roses—spontaneously

The Princess dwelling within

Being a castle built for guarding and fortification,

Bloom and entwine upon the jade platform
The flowers may cover the pathmarks
Comes crossing the Yatsuhashi Bridges of the pond—

Roses bury even people as they—

Of exquisitely tailored Chinese brocade,

The sliding door assails the Princess’s

The sound of wind that startles dreams
If it does not stir by the bedchamber’s edge,
On crimson-scented lips
Does a tender breath flow—
The floral comb tumbles onto hair

The lamp that casts light does not go out.

Brocade curtain deep within,

Spreading out my sleeve,

Though the moon shines, I do not stir.

Though flowers scatter unfading,

Pale violet tassels trailing long.

The caged parrot too does not call for food.
The corridor facing the garden’s
The hem is overgrown with blackberry thorns.
The full-length mirror hung in the bath chamber’s
Until flowers creep onto the mirror
The desolate mansion’s flower-wife
O dream, perhaps drunk on the scent of roses

Autumn has begun in the southern sky
Though eternal geese return,
Is it illusion—this half-drowse's
Not even in dreams has the soul returned.
In the southern sky
Autumn has begun
The eternal geese—
Though they return,

～～～～～～～

Form

A single line of floating clouds

Drifting within azure depths—
silver edged with bordering rim—
a celestial island it appears to be.

From the sea’s depths, the moon emerges—
When shadows—midair brimming over—
Owada’s calm waves—
The moon appears as a boat.

If it is a boat—if a boat at the water gate—
If only these long autumn nights—
Washed away by boundless waters
To soak the burning pillow—
Having taken a poisoned arrowhead in the leg
Even murmuring in the fields
Since I am restrained—
Only the boat do I long for.
Because the wound I have borne runs deep
Though I detest touching things—
When I lie down—the unpatterned phantom’s
In the eye of the flower’s form appearing—
Green—purple—crimson—
Flowers—lightning—the sky’s rainbow
Circling—vanishing—beauty’s
Even people’s faces surface—
The golden wind sweeping through myriad plants—
Dawn spilling dew—
When I gaze upon the flower garden—

How long my life seems—ah...
Today again, the fallen flower petals—
On damp earth, fragrance lingers

＊ ＊

＊ ＊

Lake Katori had become a river,
The opposing waves would surely not resist.
Go I might on this journey—even should I not fall ill—
Now I had no dreams left to mourn.
～～～～～～～
In journeying,
Through mountains standing stately along Azuma Road,
Gathering the plains' waters as I came,
The Tone River flowing south—
The waves fluttered desolately—ah...
Though it went—unclear—the white cloud's
Spanning—this long sandy expanse—ah...

When I stand at the reed edge and gaze—
Nami-saka Bay—the rain had cleared.
Sunlight spreads wide over the lake.
Distant long-tailed birds cross,
pure white wings without fluttering.
The crying sound—autumn wind in the sky.
If the flower reflected in the mirror,
I would find solace even in a different reflection.

When I think—here at journey’s end,
Though there is no new person to love,
The shrimp-catching boat’s rowing falters.
Though eighty sluice gates stand apart,
The moon floating in mist over Tsukinamihane—
The eyebrow-shaped base lies northward.
～～～～～～～

wildflower
Eastern white
born in the wilds
Morning dew
placed upon a cheek
When evening comes
In the Earth's embrace
held
sleeping wildflower
On lips
Who might have touched
traces of a kiss
faintly kept
evening’s glory of
On the shifting hill
Crimson
Crimson held aloft

Wandered.

The flock of sheep

in thin mist—

vanished far away.

A whistle's

sound—where did it linger?

The field of flowers—

the field of flowers gradually darkened.

Thin clouds encircling the splendid peak,

watching them return quietly to the mountain recess.

When I stood in the dew-covered field
The autumn of Shio Plain was harsh.
Waves' flowers scattering at the water's edge
A boat crossing rapids with white sails raised
When I stood at Kokufu Bay
Since I do not forget the feelings of travel
Stars faint in the mid-sky
Even my soul that had yearned

Seeing gentle flowers upon the ground
Fresh tears are shed
Across the field of northern light
Upon snow where light gleams back
When spring thaws the frozen flowers,
The gaunt rock too must be fragrant.
The towering edifice’s bridge they must have arched—
Babylon’s crumbled roof tiles
Lingering in bloom at the remains of the great castle’s
The colors of the flowers may not be distinct,
Coral Sea islanders too,
making flower rings
under bare breasts

They had donned brocade sashes.

In Lake Bien's morning calm,

The beauty steering the raft—

Jewels chimed at her adorned arm,

Fragrant flowers upon her chest

Bloom and scatter; scatter and bloom.

Flowers at the field's edge—so dear,

Autumn flowers wet with dew—

The decayed corridor's western alcove—

Spring flowers someone gave—

By the pond where Ezo chrysanthemums withered

Crimson-edged pinks—
Frost and dew had fallen; though battered—
Corn poppies with names so fragile—
And soon shall charming flowers bloom.
If there were a fine-browed sister—
Though I did not begrudge placing them in a ribbon
Violets, white roses
I would not pluck harshly in this garden—
The town child newly returning
Even when flowers were cast into carriages—
In the small garden’s hanging basket
Cut sasa stood fresh
The Morning Star lingered over peaks
When thoughts raced through clouds
In dim dawnlight I descended to the garden

When I catch the faint scent of flowers,
In the depths of the deep mountains, alone—
A sorrow akin to standing—
The moment I forget—it’s relentless—

My falling tears do not cease—

From Hitachi

(While someone dwelled in Musashi)

Wearing Tamamo seaweed - the beautiful woman's

Shinohara where foxes transform -

In southern Nasuno, rocks split,

The Kokaigawa River flowing into Hitachi:

All things sank through haze's depths,

Swirling beneath willows at faint dawn,

The emerald mountain Yamahime's sash -

This river winding like an obi,

Where reeds sprouted and dropwort thrived,

Spring light reaching even its currents.

In a rotted tree's hollow hid

The butterfly's enduring dream -

White-eyes molting feathers anew -

All that soared or danced stayed cloud-bound.

Surrounded by rapeseed flowers
The desolate forest’s north and south
Between villages lies the long bridge’s—
Though I gaze across the bridge that separates us,
In the southern village I was born
From the northern village you emerge,
Loose hair hanging over the forehead,
Without even touching the ends of your hair,
I have yet to see your brows.
What I saw were the embankment’s pampas flowers.
You too do not resemble my visage.
What I know are the quince flowers on the embankment.

Ah, how many years has the green grass been drenched,

I wonder if flowers adorn the embankment.

Though the rain falls gently,

People to the hometown they do not return—

Entering the oak forest,

When I gathered mountain cocoons

At the edge of the pampas field, proclaiming—

You must have cast forth blame,

Roasting stolen potatoes in the field

With our lips swollen from the smoke,

Treading on the seventh-night moon’s shadow,

Did you play the small bamboo flute as well?

I glimpse as a shadow

Of agemaki—

To call you friend—

Resentment it is

Having strayed from the world,

Lone child’s—

You sorrowful

O younger brother

Be that as it may—the sky’s
Even the clouds—
Eventually to the cave—
Those that return—
Return to the moonlit waves’
Within the breast—
For your sake I will cry
There are those

Hatogami—the name of a grass—resembled the fruit of the akebi plant. When mature, its pods split open to reveal numerous hairy achenes within. If one blew on them, they rode the wind over forests and through groves, drifting aimlessly until their final destination was unknown.

～～～～～～～

*Seiya's Light*

Reading *The Stringless Bow*

Birds sing and pass

Upon the rock

The golden bow

Carrying

The path of Seiya's arrow

As I watch—
Could that be the light?
Twilight’s—
Gathering westward—
Purple strata—
Beneath the haze—

Lurking—
white-feathered shadows—
mid-heaven—
drifting clouds—
cast upon the veranda—
waves tranquil at Owada—
of Owada

Layered tide paths—
When they glitter—

Offshore-bound ships—

Crimson—

amidst the flow—

Hidden—

Arrowhead in sky—

comes to rest—

new star—

has become star—

charmingly faint—

northward—

falling light—

how frail—

Approaches through wildfire—

The small stag’s

Cries in the outer mountains—
Though heard—
Seagulls alight
Of white shores
In the tide, morning’s—
Voice ceasing—
Noble and alluring Chang’e’s

The face—
the rising moon’s
takes on the hue
Dew begins to settle

In autumn's field
Evening's voice—
evening’s voice is faint

Elegy

The gauzy silk hem turned back—

Of the beauty who prided herself on spring’s—

The beads worn at the waist chimed—

Autumn Yanjing had risen.

Frost might not settle upon Tianjin’s—

Unfamiliar flags stood upon the bridge.

Deep purple hues of the ninefold—

Did the clouds return—west of the gorge?

As torches entered Youmeien Garden—

The jade palace too must have burned to ashes.

The evening of withered lotus leaves—

In the pond, a boat adrift—no one there.
On the swing with hanging golden tassels—

The disheveled hair will not settle—
The Milky Way streaming westward—
When the waves of dawn surge—

On the steps of Yong'an Gate
Whose wife is the fallen flower?
Even shins dyed crimson with blood—

A sword has been thrust into the chest—

～～～～～～～

Hair drenched in May rains

What I saw was merely—
The waterwheel in Yodo River’s rapids
No boats ply the Yodo River
Treading through the white clouds of the peak
In the end, I did not see Yoshino’s flowers either
What I saw was Arashiyama’s verdant foliage
Rafting upon Hozu’s current
Along the shore goes the dancing maiden
Splashed with spray, the river man
Chion-in
In spring’s fullness, great blooms—

Peonies blooming at the balustrade—
The coming and going people too—crimson
Chion-in Temple sunk deep in flowers
The camphor tree bridge that has turned to stone
Reluctant to cross—the long-sleeved kimono’s
The long sleeves tucked at the shoulder—

“You who hesitate, turn this way.”

Spring Day

At the eaves’ edge—the cicada lantern’s

Cicada wings darkening beneath young leaves’ shade

To the young stag not yet sprouted horns

“O startled beauty,

Upon moss-green stones,

Cast forth the confection in your right hand.

Never again shall I love—

Even your sleeves would not be drawn.”

Evening.

With brows unfurled—do you bid me return?

You, unaware of your own limits—

Evening—alone on a rocky shore,
Do you fear standing in the dark?
Be at ease—with the ebb tide,
Though they sink, they rise again—
Waves like foes upon white sands—
The shore is no eternal grave.

Endless paths

Wind scattered pampas grass across the plain

Hill grass lay moist with thin mist

The once-bustling green mountain's

Ah, autumn had now faded away

Evening faces unaccustomed to light—

Seeming like flowers—the orphan's

Enclosed within were hollow remains

The coffin remained unlowered into the hole

Through endless paths where winds passed

Tear-streaked faces must have been blown by the gale

The child’s forelocks were black,
their eyes had once been clear.
In the dim dream’s moonlit dawn,
Mother too appeared by the small pillow—
left undried yet ultimately beautiful,
the eyebrows ceased to move.
Before frost came, people scattered—
the spread soil had frozen.
Chasing the moon hidden in grass,
the voiceless dead do not hide in graves.

～～～～～～～

That night deepened.

The lake where water glistens faintly—
Cherry blossoms scatter along the shore,
Will you wed beneath Mount Tsukuba’s shadow—

Deep within towering layers of clouds,

At the door of the bedchamber where orchids and musk are fragrant—

If one took Oro’s mirror in hand,

Of the copper pheasant drowning in shadows—

Upon cheeks—the crimson hue surged.

Resplendent with flowers—the solitary slumber’s

Floating bridge of dreams broke midway

In black hair prone to curling—

The lapis lazuli hairpin glittered.

Will you return? Ah, to the moonlit wave’s base—

In the distant realm of clustered clouds

The lake where mountain shadows descend

With the moon between waves as my memento

Could there be love without trace when evening falls?

Because of the beloved kept wakeful by someone’s tending hands,

～～～～～～～

Accompanying wildfire

White clouds hanging low over Ashigara

Mountains stretched endlessly afar

How might they have crossed in the west wind?

The field became one where wild geese cry.

Emerald-sunken river’s upper reaches

Spanning brokenly from gorge

The forest appeared hazily—

An autumnless sea of fog

Dawn stepped without sound

Eyebrows wet with pampas dew

Though he walked—the houseless child

Stood where solace had fled

Dark clouds swallowed light

At their deepest bow came autumn

Eastward on long embankment

Lingered moon’s slender sliver

"Now our parting has come to pass

"Mother," I call out yet do not speak.

The grave placed alongside father’s—
In the end, no tears were seen.
The path distant, I walk alone:
Journey holds the heart’s loneliness.

In my hometown where pampas grass scatters,
Though I yearn for the wife left behind—
Be that as it may—accustomed now to Kozukenami’s
Mountain that does not emerge from fog.

The mountain emerged from the fog,

Morning was here once more.

The wind tore the butterfly’s wings.

Frost stole the monkey’s food.

Each morning as autumn had aged

The emptying sky stood high,

Mountain birds brushed against the trailing-tail ground

Where comings and goings passed, the grass had withered.

Only the smoke of lingering wildfires

As it moved, the day grew desolate.

~~~~~~~~~~

Starry Night

Crimson wrapped around her waist—

The sash resembles a rainbow.

At the collar glimmers white silk,

Let me see it as snow enveloping the valley.

O beautiful dancing princess,

Birds dance in the misty sky,

Butterflies stray through the flower fields' earth.

You pillow your head on young grass

Do not dream in the spring field.

O beautiful dancing princess,

The black hair where the hairpin gleams

Should it come undone, it would scatter in the wind.

At least conceal it with your fan

The trace where moonlight lingers on brows

O beautiful dancing princess,

On a starry night, accompanied by an elder sister,

When I wandered the streets of Gion,
the cherry blossoms had scattered, yet—
the one who had been young and sorrowful—
seeing you who resembled a memory’s shadow,
even I, worn through with desolation,
was reluctant to depart the Western Capital—
Ah, Daiko...

(Staying at Usui’s house)

O flower-like one—

Longing, I say,
That I wept to the moon—
That which is a dream.

The warp threads fray,
Cloth in hand,
Traces of tears—
Though visible—
In this shallow floating world,

Being as I am—
You too, being so—
I shall not reproach.

Of the flower-like one
Longing, I say—
That I wept to the moon

A thing that is a dream—

Bitter though it be—crimson leaves
Patterned reed heads—

At the foothills now—
Let us return
The broken drum—
Though struck, it does not sound.
Falling tears—
Do you know?
～～～～～～～

Chikushishū

The New Wife Scroll

Waves parting from horizontal clouds—

Matsuura, shattered and clamoring—

𪂬-flying Himeshima’s

From the offing, the dawn pales—

In the harbor bay where a lone sail had lowered

Aligned waters blueing—

The shadow fades; a lone star remains.

The northern sea alone lay distant—
Smoke drifted lost over Shimabara’s—
At Nomo’s Cape’s tidal flow—
As I sent off the small boat, my waist-bound straw coat—
I who had grown accustomed to wringing—
At the rocky shore where seagulls hid—
When the cicadas fell silent and I gazed out—
Bursting stones of Fire Mountain—
Over the sea where gleams flashed ahead—
The fainting old woman had been washed away at Satsuma Lagoon—
Drifting off the coast of the small island—
On the small pillow woven with bamboo—
A swaying dream’s tranquility—
From the stern fell away that time—
Caught in Mother’s rake—
Flying the kite from the prow—
The string had been soaked by the tide—
Autumn deepened on the banyan tree's branches—
On the Island of Wasted Years, mandarin ducks cried at night.

The coral bed’s smoothness—
The thousand-layered waves—endless they spread.
The moon going westward, ever westward—
When I look, indeed moved to tears though I am,
Not being a tomb built with blue stones
On land, there would be no dwelling;

Far to the south, the Yaeyama’s

In the Kuroshio Current washing Shimane’s shores—
The flow too draws near—the tachibana’s—
The flowers must bloom fragrant in Tokoyo’s realm.
The moon soaring celestial at dawn—
May the peak’s blossoms indeed come scattering down.

A boat floating outside the bedchamber—
The figured haze wreathed around—
Wild geese crossing the sea’s gate—

Though I envy wings in the sky—
Through which of the eightfold tidal paths—

Surmounting the waves to return—
Should we not depart? The boat lies light—
Hoisting the anchor’s rope.
If shattered—golden upon stone—
Are there not glittering islands?

To reindeer with antlers stern and grand,
With sled pulled across snowy fields—
Crimson adorning heaven’s vault—
To gaze upon northern lights—

The moon began sinking over Black Dragon River—
On rock, a tiger roared—
If your soft skin should prickle with chill,
Cling to my hand—a sword exists—

Of trackless Shiranui fires—
Born in Chikushi’s sea—
On ice mountain, the seal’s
Fang-sharpening steals courage—

A blue shell buried in sand—
Though I pluck it up to banish sorrow—

When longing for Matsuura arose,

Ah, how precious she would have been—the flower wife.

The night heron with withered wings,

Resenting the rain upon the mast,

Cries out for its mate at shore.

The mountain grazing clouds—is that Sasashima?

The flower-adorned comb hidden in the keepsake box—

Unforgettably, your reaching hand—

O precious disheveled bangs,

The white forehead remains untousled.

When I consider the bitterness of transient nights,

Accompanied by a flower-like person,

We go to part ways

Without tears,

Belatedly dampening

With no garment—

The sky too becomes water

In the vast sea—

The boat I row—

Who would obstruct?

Floating Sleep Volume

How enviable
A shooting star gazes upon whom in the sky?
When evening falls, they emerge
They must know the light
Since they are not stars appearing at dusk—
The floating boat draped in canopy
A night of crying plovers becomes my beloved's dwelling
Unknowing parents as ships—
Pampas grass sleeves heavy with dew
Autumn remains unknown in Suzaku Field
Though the starlit path treads lightly
Can it return easily to the waves?
Nine stars hang at the dragon's head
Light strays lost through mist
The stolen creak of oars reaches Sasashima's
There was a small boat entering the inlet
At white shores where something soars
To seek the sunken pearl
Young breasts of vengeful waves
Oh child of ama, long tossed by their play

The forelock draping the forehead
If this tangled start be love—
As if Kyoto crimson on lips—
Though untouched, how I yearn for this person—

Autumn rain pours on the small boat
Though I have no koto to play
The triple-coiled sash end trails long
The haze-veiled hair beautiful

＊ ＊

＊ ＊

The swiftly passing spring night’s

The moon returned to the east.

The eightfold sea paths purely white

Autumn—how cold its light.

Pillowing on the hauled rope

Even if I silently wet my collar,
In the mid-sky where spring returns
The afterimage of dreams must linger.

Finally parting without lingering attachment
The star-converging sky dimly—
The fisherman crossing through yearning—

Tears flowed down cheeks,
Brandishing oars and hauling ropes—
The ama’s skiff creaked.

The torchfire pales at dawn's
The bell faintly resounds
Paler than water
The moon's
The shadow dimly
Has remained
Silhouette burns

Purple—

Layered clouds drift—

Wada Field
Washing the morning sun
On wave crests—
Shining light
Crumbles through
Sky-piercing
Golden
Hundredfold arrows
Flash—
Surge and swirl—
The new tide's
Sound of struck rocks
When high,

Unrelenting
Osprey
The voice at the rocky inlet

Mist lingering—
By the lakeshore

In sky-flying clouds, autumn rises—

A lake where waves have voices—

The eastern road of the ancient barrier's traces—

Lake Tōha has darkened into evening.

Water leaking through the culvert’s

At the stream’s end, faintly white—

Having divided the newly reclaimed paddies

On the embankment, the pines' voices also rise

Dawn-opening flower of

Waves at the shore weaving brocade—

Lotus floating leaves too—the autumn wind’s

Touched by the sword and split.

Light desolate—the forest’s shade

The dew falls on eyelids, yet—

Wildflowers sleeping yet unwaking—

In dreams—do I greet the moon?

The Milky Way tilts—

Flowers that fall before the stars—

Tinged with a color that shines like snow—

Is it the moonflower that blooms in secret?

The crimson-faded safflower’s
Attempting to pluck the slender stamen—
In gardens where bees whirl bewildered—
Frowning brows despite no wife’s presence—

The cry of wild geese grows distant along Shinano Road—

Mountain lilies buried in mist—

The night when [flowers] were placed in a vase did not topple—

Pillow and dreams too were fragrant—

The bangs dangling on a forehead—

With the scent of oil, grazing lightly—

Covering the eyebrows fondly—

Though there are children I adorned with hairpins,

How might one write with a crimson brush—

Alluring characters—this self that knows them not,

The maidenflowers said to lie in dew

In seeing lies a comfort to the heart

When I tend the countless wildflowers,

Though sleeves faded from hue,

Touches from without upon the aching chest

How cruel the crossing wind!

Traces of the water chestnut-gathering boat vanished—

The moon lay clouded upon the waves.

A radiant sky encircled by seven hues—

O flower garland, hang there

Though it stood, in the hazy night—

A visage vanishing into the moon,

If only within the flower garland—

So that people might permit the depiction—

～～～～～～～

Gazing up at Mount Fuji—

In the farthest reaches of the great plain, the grass had withered—

The fire became easier to ignite.

The water did not babble, the birds did not sing.

What moved was only low smoke.

The setting sun’s strength wanes—

Though it hangs between the forest trees—

The sky’s color calmly reflects—
The emerald gradually pales—
Eightfold clouds gather in the south—
The drifting dust settles—
Snow-crowned—
The lofty peak of Mount Fuji does not appear—
In the unreturning waves, a shadow emerges—
Cherry blossoms must scent the river—
Through heaven and earth where haze begins—
All-pervading is the light—
Upon this chest where tears have frozen—
Closed flowers strain to bloom—
My spirit that neared extinction—
Now revives, made new—
When travelers return homeward,
I shall see my flower-wife at the gate

What I see is the raging wind
The withered willow at the base of the earthen bridge
When people set out on journeys
I shall see the beautiful one in an oak coffer
Upon the path I tread lies
A hole sealing darkness
Clouds dwelling upon Mount Tsukuba's
Though leafy peaks and crowded summits enshroud

In spring, butterflies dance through the flower garden—
Legs that should stand have withered.
All too often into the depths of clouds—
The beloved child trying to hide
In the bosom of a grieving mother
As shackles that refuse release—
Though I have prayed for a thousand ages,
Mother declares she will die for her child’s sake.
Leaving my mother, alone in this world,
What I possess—

When I consider its absence—